


Yr Eryr yn Codi

by WildandWhirling



Category: The Mabinogion - Fandom, Welsh Mythology
Genre: Basically all the lovely things you would expect from the Mabinogion, Gen, Gwydion Typical Sexism, Gwydion is utter scum but he loves Lleu, Parent-Child Relationship, Past Rape/Non-con, Victim Blaming, references to Blodeuwedd, references to Goewin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:15:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22552354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildandWhirling/pseuds/WildandWhirling
Summary: Lleu recovers. Gwydion plots.
Relationships: Gwydion & Llew Llaw Gyffes (Welsh Mythology)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Yr Eryr yn Codi

**Author's Note:**

  * For [psychomachia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychomachia/gifts).



> Apologies in advance for the slightly dubious Welsh title; between Medieval Welsh and Modern Welsh, my main specialty is medieval, and I suspect that if you were to ask my professor, he would say that "specialty" is a very big word for it. So, if you're going "Wait, that doesn't look like it fits with modern Welsh!" that is probably why. It was never intended to be modern. Or at least. I will pretend that that is why.

The first time Lleu walks again, it is a moment of rejoicing. 

They are not impressive steps, even when he was a boy growing into his own body, he walked surer than that, trembling, bony knees teetering with each step. He has not recovered his full looks from the eagle, even as Gwydion spoon feeds him thick broth of boar and beef and every other thing rich in fat for his every meal; his skin still stretched thin and pale across his form, eyes still dull and hollow, and in the light of the tallow candles, he looks like he’s made of wax.

No, he had always been a strong boy, golden and perfect and  _ his _ . His, not Arianhrod’s, not Math’s.  _ His _ . And he loves him, with the kind of senseless, fierce, feral devotion that she-wolves devote to their young, with a love that surprises him sometimes. 

(He is drawn to another time, a time of dark cave walls and the whimpers of a small pup suckling from him, ears pricked and teeth bared as he hears shuffling outside. He does not think, not with the mind of a human, but something deep and strong tells him that he will do  _ anything _ for the blind, helpless pile of fur squirming against him.) 

Gwydion’s mind simmers with rage, even as Math claps him with a sort of chilled, insincere warmth and tells him that it is a good thing, sparing a furtive, apologetic glance to Goewin as he does so. (He knows, regardless of what Math says, that simply because he has been forgiven what is past does not mean that he is forgotten. Especially when sweet, supple Goewin is there to whisper in Math’s ear at night. He’d done her a favor, really, all those years ago. She should have been  _ grateful _ . Not that whatever she says matters anymore; he has paid his time, freed himself of his sentence, and the evidence of it is….hm, he doesn’t know where. But certainly of no bother.) 

His rage is not the impulsive rage of chieftains, warriors, fools, men who were best manipulated. No, it's calculating, calculated rage. Quiet, all-consuming, cooking the ones who did this alive without them even realizing it. (And they will burn for it, he thinks, imagining Blodeuwedd’s pristine white body racked, twitching in pain, just as Lleu had when he was a rotting eagle, imagines Gronw impaled with his sword just as he’d seen fit to impale Lleu’s rightful woman.)

He does almost regret Blodeuwedd. It’s almost a pity to lose such a good bit of magic, but, well...she’s like an ivory drinking horn, now cracked straight down the middle, or like an old, pagan statue of a goddess, arms, legs, nose shattered. Nothing more to be done with her, and she needs to be punished for her rebellion, anyway. (She was made for Lleu’s pleasure, not her own.) 

“F-Father-” Lleu whispers, clutching at his back with thin arms, and he catches him, because of course he will. (He thinks of rotted, worm infested feathers filling his hands even as the last notes of a song are still in his throat. No, not torture for Blodeuwedd. Nothing so merciful as death.)

“There, there, there, my boy,” his voice is gentle, persuasive, at odds with the rage boiling inside of him, the same soft voice that’s manipulated men to their deaths, the same voice that’s directed the ends of kingdoms, because it’s the only softness he knows how to use. “Let’s get you to bed, hm? We’ll try again in the morning.” 

“I have to keep trying, who knows what that pair are doing in the meanwhile?” 

Some part of Gwydion summons up the bitter humor to think  _ Most likely? One another. _ (Let them have happiness, let them think they’ve broken away, it will make what’s to come more bitter.)

“And they will do it for far longer if you do not take the time to recover,” Gwydion says, guiding him back to the cot, despite his weak protests. 

“But-”    
  
“Do as I say, Lleu,” he says, a bit more bite to it, only a little, enough to consider no argument, the voice that he used when Lleu was a child and would not listen to reason, when they were walking together, side by side, and he would get distracted by a butterfly or a bird and run after it. Then, he softens, “Have I ever let you down?”    
  
“No,” Lleu says, leaning against him. “You haven’t.”    
  
Gwydion pats his shoulder. “Just do as I say in this, and all will be well. In all manner of ways.”

Lleu nods his head weakly, letting himself be laid out on the bed. “Very well, as you say.” 

If everyone simply did as he said, this wouldn’t have happened. That silly, stupid, craven bitch of a girl had thought to fight back, had let her own passion devour her from the inside like a cancer, and where would she end for it? Nowhere, nowhere at all. He would see to it. 

Lleu, his frail form swimming in the sheets, clutches at his arm, looking at him with desperate eyes, like when he was younger and asked him to use his magic wand to cast away nightmares. He sighs and kisses his cold forehead.

For now, they just have to get him strong again. 

That is all he needs. His boy back. 

And as for the rest…

It will come.


End file.
